


Adriel

by Hillena



Series: winged [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Omegle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:25:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hillena/pseuds/Hillena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i am deeply embarrassed. also, unbeta'd as always.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Adriel

**Author's Note:**

> i am deeply embarrassed. also, unbeta'd as always.

“Would you keep a secret for me, John?” He asked over breakfast, his mouth full of bacon strips.

He was lost in an article in the newspaper when Sherlock’s voice ripped him out of his thoughts, “Yeah?”

“I’ve a tattoo on my back,” He said as he took a sip of his coffee, “Wings across my shoulder blades and arms.”

The bit of information confuses the good doctor. He looked at Sherlock, “You have a tattoo? Since when?”

“I was born with it,” He shrugged as he flipped through the notes on his moleskine, “Specialists experimented on me until they discovered something about it.”

Folding his paper, as he would clearly not get to read anymore, and he put it aside.“What are you talking about?” That seemed very illogical. 

Sherlock removed his shirt and folded it neatly, placing it on the table. He muttered something in Latin, then his dark wings fluttered behind him, “When I was a baby I looked like a sulking cherub,” He said as he sipped his coffee, “Do we have more bacon?” He asked.

John only watched the whole procedure in astonishment, not aware what actually happened until a pair of dark wings emerged from Sherlock’s back that would have made him jump if he weren't sitting, “Holy shit, Sherlock, what are those?” He exclaimed loudly, fully ignoring the request for more bacon.

Sherlock gave out an exasperated sigh, “Legs,” His tone oozing sarcasm. He stood up and clicked his tongue, wings immediately returning to their natural, inked state on his back, taking more bacon from the pan.

“Shut up, Sherlock, I mean it!” John argued back, angry and confused. He was not stupid, but what the hell was that? He rubbed over his face before he pointed towards Sherlock’s back. “What. The hell. Is that?”

“What do you think?” he said as he put a bacon strip in his mouth, “Bacon?” He offered casually.

“Wings. Sherlock. I mean those. Don’t take me for stupid.” Or had he just imagined that?

“Excellent deduction, my dear Watson,” He put his shirt back on, putting his plate and mug into the sink.

John stood there, dumbfounded, while Sherlock had just opened a not so casual fact about him and now acted as if it should have been obvious. He was not sure how to react, but this…this made him angry. Sherlock just acted as if nothing had happened. And with any further second John became angry. Yes, angry. Without a word he grabbed for his jacket and left the room, not without banging the door behind him loudly. He needed fresh air.

“No-one will ever stay with you, the monster that you are,” He remembered his mother say as John left the flat. He never believed what she said until now. Until the man he trusted, loved even, walked out the door. He sat in front the window, his legs folded under him, he eyes staring at the skies he used to fly to. “No-one,” He rasped, “Not even John.”

He had not really noticed where he had gone to, until he heard the Thames flow by and his steps slowed down so he could take a breath. Holy fucking shit. What had he just seen?

_Sherlock._

And _wings._

He had not even heard of such a mutation before. Not a mutation, he had transformed a tattoo into wings and like that they had vanished back. He didn’t understand anything. And then Sherlock just seemed to make fun of him, by… by …fuck, no, Sherlock had just ignored it. He didn’t want to answer questions and knowing Sherlock, he did so out of a very valid reason.

_What was he supposed to do now?_

_Act as if it was normal?_

_But it wasn’t!_

He walked along the river for a while before he sighed and had to decide whether or not to return to Baker Street or stay away for a night. Maybe Sarah had a place to stay for him. No, no, he shook his head. He had to go back.

Already gone for almost two hours, he let out a rather desperate sigh before he turned and walked back to the place that seemed to be such a nice place, a comfort home until he woke up this morning.

Sherlock’s eyes attempted to water so he slept on the sofa, his back to the world. The light sleeper that he was, he woke to the sound of footsteps on creaking floorboards and a door being opened, “…J-John?” He asked as he worried his lip.

John arrived shortly after, at first hesitating to enter, but then he forced himself to go in. Sherlock owed him at least an explanation. He found Sherlock on the couch and closed the door. “Explain.” was all he said, watching the other emotionless.

“Apparently, my father is an angel,” He said carefully, “An ‘ex-human’ if you will.”

John shook his head once. “That makes no sense to me Sherlock. The whole story, if you please.” To make his point of being interested, he sat down in his chair, his eyes fixated on Sherlock, waiting for him to talk.

“My father was an angel of God, apparently,” He said, wringing his hands nervously, “His name was Adriel. Mycroft and I— We loved our father. Very much so. He was the only one who accepted us. And he… d-died when I was seven. Our mother,” He hated calling her that, “She dumped us on our uncle after father died. A-And—” He took a breath, his chest heaving slightly at the things he didn’t want to remember.

But John wanted to understand. So he let it flow. For John.

Anything for John.

John listened carefully. He had to keep in mind what he had already seen and what was possibly proof for what he just heard. Angels. He had never heard about them. Outside of any religious context at least. “So you are a half angle.” he said. No, he didn’t get that. But he was not expected to understand immediately, was he?

Sherlock laughed hollowly, “To sum it up, yes, I’m half angel.”

He was baffled. “Half angel.” he nodded. “That is… wow… I really don’t know what to say.” That was the last thing he had expected, considering he didn’t even know that such existed.

“The first time I told anyone, he asked me if I could fly,” He smiled fondly at the memory.

John nodded and got up, sighing, to get some tea. “Well, can you?”

“I flew Lestrade to the roof of NSY,” He giggled, “He clutched at me so tight we almost fell!”

Oh, so Lestrade knew about it. Quietly, John walked into the kitchen to pour himself a cup. Just to pick a second for Sherlock. He came out, unsure where exactly to look but placing a cup before Sherlock he sat down again. He tried to speak up multiple times, but all he finally got out was a “Why?”

His brows knitted together, “Why what?”

“Why telling me now, all of a sudden?” it was not that the trust Sherlock showed with that was unappreciated, but it made no sense. He could have hidden it for as long as they knew each other. How did Lestrade get to know about it?

“I got tired of texts from Mycroft telling me to do so.” He said behind his cup.

“Oh.” Well, that was almost a disappointing answer to get. Thoughtfully he sipped on his tea. At had not been his own wish for him to know then.

“Okay,” Sherlock breathed unsteadily.

He took John’s cup and placed it on the coffee table. He cupped John cheek, pressing a gentle, languid kiss on John’s lips. He pulled away, looking uneasily at John’s eyes. “Okay?” He said quietly. Sherlock went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He then sat on the lid on the toilet and withdrew his wings. He started picking loose feathers, dumping them into the tub to burn later.

The whole thing happened in a kind of haze. He knew he watched Sherlock approach him, felt his hands and suddenly his lips, his eyes closing at the impact and he would not realise before he heard the door towards the bathroom close that he had not even thought about resisting. He snapped back to reality, looking into the direction where Sherlock had disappeared to. What the hell had just happened? What did that mean? Why had Sherlock kissed him so…lovingly?

When Sherlock had finished, he burned his feathers. All except one. He left that one in the sink for John to find. He used the door joined to his bedroom and hid himself under the covers, quietly humming pieces himself like father used to do.

After a while of nothing John smelled something burned and wondered what Sherlock was doing? It was not unusual for him to burn things but right now seemed not a good moment to ignore it. He had not reacted the way Sherlock had wanted him too, if there was anything he could expect at all. He got up and found the dark coloured bathtub, full of ash and the single feather. Was Sherlock trying to tell him something?

“Sherlock?” he called out, but knew where he would find him.

Sherlock hummed in response as he played with the piano application on his mobile.

Oh dear, what was it now that he had to handle? John sat down on the bed beside the heap of blanket over Sherlock. A five-year old pouting? A insecurity he had not yet ever seen in the dark haired man, well angel? “Stop that and talk to me.”

“Keep the feather,” He said as he started Bach’s prelude in C major, “You’ll need it someday.”

He looked down at the feather in his hand. It was a beautiful one. “How?”

“Now, that I’ve told you what I am,” He started as he ended the short piece, “It means that you’ve gained my trust and I… need you. In some way. I’m your… Servant, of sorts. Break the feather in two, say a word relevant to what’s happening, where you are or whatever and I stop whatever I’m doing. I go to you and at your disposal.”

“There could be worse, I suppose”, John worded after he had no idea what else to say. “But I don’t want you to be under my service. I mean…” They were friends and this now seemed as if he would be above Sherlock.

“I won’t be your servant. Very unlikely since, as you know, I’m stuborn. But apparently when you show your wings, it’s considered intimate. Now that you’ve become too significant to me to not…” He stopped his piece, gesturing between them as he looked for the right word, “… not do this.”

“Me to not do...what?” John felt how he was becoming a bit nervous, still not processing what Sherlock was trying to tell him without reading too much of too less, and not knowing how to handle it he now looked actually, lost.

“Why is this so hard!” He yelled as he threw his pillow across the room. He took a deep breath, rubbing both hands on his face, “I’m in love with you. I showed you my tattoo because I’m in love with you.” He collapsed onto his bed his eyes closed and his breathing unsteady.

John almost jumped up again, at least a bit away in surprise. Oh. “You are in love with me?” This was so not what he knew from this man.

“Yes,” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, “I love you  _so much_  that the wounds on my roots hurt.”

Wounds, roots? “What do you mean, Sherlock?”

He pushed at his eyelids harder, “Nothing, John. It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s all fine. I’m fine,” He said in a flurry.

“You're obviously not. Even I can see that you are completely stressed and probably in shock, no matter the reason,” Carefully but certain, he grabbed for Sherlock’s hand to make him look at him, “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

He wanted to reassure the other. He at least didn’t want him to be more upset than he already was, “I just start to realise what you are saying. You understand that it takes a bit, yes? I don’t know what's right to say or so. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It was weeks ago, nothing important,” John snorted in disbelief.

Sherlock curled up on his side, “I was scared. I was scared that even— E-Even the only person that I love won’t accept me. So I thought that… That if I cu-cut o—” He didn’t finish his sentence, his words failed him as his weathered wings wrapped itself around Sherlock’s lanky frame like cocoon, shielding himself from the world.

John went over to his side, prying open his beautiful, dark wings. He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, “I love you, okay?” He breathed against the other’s lips, “No matter what. I promise.”

John pressed a kiss to his forehead, “I promise.”

And Sherlock swears, he could hear his father smile.


End file.
